End of Fairytale
by TheWeekendSinner
Summary: Tonight, it looks like Lonely Boy has found himself a late-night winter break date. But wait…is Lonely Girl Queen B herself? Better watch where you leave your heart –or on that note, your La Perlas– B, because it just might get stolen. Sexy One-Shot.


****World: TV Show, **Season 4 **

**Summary: Tonight, it looks like Lonely Boy has found himself a late-night winter break date. But wait…is Lonely Girl Queen B herself? Better watch where you leave your heart (or on that note, your La Perlas) B, because it just might get stolen. **

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><p><strong>AN: Sexy one-shot. Takes place during the_ winter holidays_, _right before Louis's arrival_ to the Upper East Side. AU or not, you decide. Hope you enjoy!**

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><p>Once again, to her utter embarrassment, Blair finds herself pressing a Brooklyn doorbell.<p>

She can hear it _ring_ behind the thin wooden door.

She still has time. Time to escape, that is. Time to hail a taxi to 5th Avenue and make it to the designer Christmas displays at Saks.

But before she can turn on her heel, the door is yanked open and there he stands.

Dan Humphrey.

He only looks mildly surprised to see her. Unlike Blair, he seems to be getting quite used to them being..._friends_?

That can't be the right word. Blair refuses to use that wretched word.

She clears her throat. "Humphrey," she greets nonchalantly.

"Blair," he answers.

They stand there stupidly for a few seconds before Blair shoots him an irritated look. "Aren't you going to invite me in?" she semi-snaps.

Dan seems to come to his senses. "Uh, yeah, sure." He steps awkwardly back into the apartment. "Come on in. Can't keep the _princess_ waiting in the cold," he adds sarcastically, waving her in.

Blair rolls her eyes and strides in after him. "At least the _princess_ has on a sweater that doesn't look like it's been crafted by the Wicked Witch of the West."

It's his turn to roll his eyes.

She seats herself on his worn-out leather couch. Worn-out, but comfy, she can't help notice.

As he locks the door, he asks, "So...what brings you to Brooklyn?"

"I recall you mentioning a few weeks back that you had The Treasure of the Sierra Madre on your Netflix queue," she replies casually.

To be honest, she'd been feeling completely lonely the past couple of days.

She'd sworn on her brand new Louboutins –_sworn_ –that she wouldn't go back to seeking Humphrey's company again. But it was like something was _calling_ her.

That something was probably only the prospect of a 40's flick and a mug of hot chocolate. That's what she tells herself.

Dan doesn't question her. And why should he? That's all she wants. Really.

So an hour later, they find themselves with just that: two steaming cups of Nestle cocoa (_Nestle_, and she doesn't even mind), halfway through Frank and Bob's search for gold in the Sierra Madre Mountains, cuddled cozily on the couch.

Somewhere, sometime during the movie, Blair hadn't even noticed that Dan's arm had artfully snaked around her waist, pulling her closer to his chest.

He doesn't smell half-bad, she notices. It's not a musky designer cologne, which is what she's used to on the Upper East Side. No, it's more like...soap. And leaves. And Starbucks. And home-made pizza.

Which Blair should be disgusted by.

So why isn't she?

And why isn't she disgusted by the fact that her precious brown tresses –treated by Frederic Fekkai himself, just last week –are resting on his chest? Why does she... _like_ it?

No. No, she does _not_ like it.

And if she does not like it, then why is her hand crawling over to the remote control and hitting pause? And why is she turning herself to face him, her hands on his shoulders?

And most importantly, why are her lips pressed to his?

They break away as quickly as they'd come together. Dan looks at her with an expression so quizzical and tender and _Humphrey_-ish that Blair can't bring herself to take her hands off his wool-clad body.

So they just stare at each other, hung in space and time. The princess and her pauper.

No. Not _her_ pauper. He wasn't hers. And she wasn't his.

End of fairytale.

She brings her hands back to herself and reaches for the remote control, but the Humphrey boy stops her and spins her body to face him.

"So...are we just going to pretend that didn't happen?" His voice is a mixture of things. Confusion and gentleness and... is that _longing_?

No. Of course not.

She sighs. "I honestly don't know what that was, Humphrey." She takes a deep breath. "What with all that's happened with...with Chuck, and...my damned career...I feel so lost. And alone," she admits reluctantly.

"You're not alone." Dan's voice is so strong and firm it surprises her. Comforts her, even. "You have me, Blair. You always have me."

"Really?" She tries to make her voice sound sarcastic.

"Really."

Blair's resolve breaks and her arms snake automatically around his neck. "I want you," she breathes out.

Dan looks taken aback. "Blair," he says hesitantly. "I don't know if...if..." He stumbles to find the right words. "If this is... _right_."

She doesn't want to face the uncertainty of it all. So she brings her body closer to his.

"We'll know afterwards, now, won't we?" she murmurs in his ear.

And then their lips are crushed together again, her hands in his dark hair, his arms around her waist, on that lonely Brooklyn couch in the middle of a cold December evening.

They undo each other's clothes with an urgent passion, giving themselves no time to feel confused. Right now, the only feeling they allow themselves is bliss.

Only minutes later, Blair's La Perla underwire lies on the floor, discarded haphazardly in a pile tangled with Humphrey's Levi's.

His naked body on hers, she lets her slender hands wrap around his back, more muscular than she'd ever guessed it to be. He trails kisses down her neck, across her tummy, and back up again. She can't help the moans and whimpers that escape her when his warm tongue finally lands where she wants it the most.

He licks and he strokes with his writer's fingers. Blair doesn't think of the _wrongness_ of this. Or maybe she does. Maybe, it's _so_ wrong it's right.

_What am I _doing,_ fucking Dan Humphrey?_ crosses her mind once or twice, before the thought is obliterated in a mind-blowing explosion caused by the boy from Brooklyn.

Or his tongue, more like.

Seconds later, he's back on top of her so that they're chest to chest.

And with a single fluid motion, he's in her.

Brooklyn meets Manhattan, princess meets pauper, dreary meets designer, whatever you want to call it. And with each thrust, Blair feels less and less like a stranger.

She'd never thought she'd see the day when she thought of Dan Humphrey as... _sexy_. But here it is.

The worst part is, she doesn't even feel _ashamed_.

She doesn't feel ashamed as she grabs his hand again, and as he continues to move in and out of her, places his fingers to her clit again. He strokes as he grinds in her, her hips moving forward to meet his, his thumb and fingers working their magic.

And she doesn't feel ashamed when she feels it yet again. That fiery finish she never thought she'd let Humphrey make her feel. And she makes him feel it too.

Minutes later, they lie there, exhausted on the couch, catching their breaths, faces flushed. Her head is on his shoulders, and he's wrapped the two of them in a warm woolly blanket, running his fingers through her hair, their clothes still beside the coffee table.

When she finally gets up to leave half an hour later, fully dressed now, she turns to face him.

"This," she says sternly, "stays between us. You're not. Telling. _Anyone_."

"My lips are sealed, Blair," Dan answers.

She narrows her eyes at him, trying to seem threatening. "If this reaches the Upper East Side, Humphrey, I'll make sure that _you're_ shipped off to the Sierra Madre. _Without_ a pickaxe," she can't resist adding.

Dan grins that crooked grin of his. "I promise, Blair. But for the record, I think I'd be OK with just my bare hands. I mean," he adds devilishly, "you found them pretty OK, didn't you?"

Blair feels her face redden, but she smiles anyway. "Shut up, Humphrey."

"You know, that language isn't appropriate for an Upper East Side princess."

She sighs, thinking of all her fuck-ups with Chuck (her _chuck-ups_, she calls them) and her job. "Believe me, I'm no princess."

Dan reaches out to touch her cheek. "No," he says finally. "You're not. You're..._real_. You're...perfect. With all your imperfections, Blair...you're still..." He trails off, unable to say any more.

Blair feels her heart skip a beat. She can't let it get that far.

So she steps back and nods, her tone formal again as she says, "Good night, then, Humphrey."

Something in her heart aches when she takes in his disappointed expression.

Dan insists on hailing a taxi for her, and when he finally does say, "G'night, Blair," she misses him already.

As her taxi speeds away, she decides she's never really wanted to be a princess. Not really. She's always wanted to be just what Humphrey had called her. _Real_. And perfectly imperfect.

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><p>Ten miles away, a horse-carriage speeds towards her apartment building.<p>

Not exactly a horse-carriage. A limo, more like.

A limo that carries a prince who carries a box which carries a shoe.

And everyone knows that if the shoe fits...

You wear it.

End of fairytale.

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><p><strong>Yep, that's Louis's limo at the end there! Whether or not Blair gets pregnant from this is left up to you to decide. :) <strong>

**Love it? Hate it? Reviews would be much appreciated. :D I'd love to know whether I got this right or if I just... _chucked_ it up. :D**

**(By the way, _The Treasure of the Sierra Madre_ is a 40's movie about a two guys named Frank and Bob who go on a search for gold, hence the pickaxe comment from B. Just in case anyone was wondering.) **


End file.
